


The Lay of Loki

by amberfox17



Category: The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types, Thor (Movies)
Genre: Abuse of Tolkien, Alternate Universe, Elves, High Fantasy, M/M, Storytelling
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-29
Updated: 2013-12-29
Packaged: 2018-01-06 15:17:27
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,786
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1108394
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/amberfox17/pseuds/amberfox17
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Let me tell you a tale of the elder days, when mighty men and wicked monsters still roamed our Middle Earth; when the shining elves still sang in the shadow of the silver trees and the deep-delving dwarves still dwelt in the bones of the mountains. Let me tell you a tale of one of the greatest of all the heroes of that past age, the golden King, he who was called the Thunderer before he recovered his crown and his kingdom, he who founded that great Kingdom of Men now lost and forgotten, who made his home in the Realm Eternal, the jewel-bright city of Asgard, high amidst the clouds.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Lay of Loki

**Author's Note:**

  * For [MartyMc](https://archiveofourown.org/users/MartyMc/gifts).



> This is all due to the [wonderful Marty](http://marty-mc.tumblr.com), her stunning art and our mutual obsession with perfect elf hair. This one's for you!  
> [Art collab here!](http://marty-mc.tumblr.com/post/71543359703/here-is-the-tale-of-a-quest-to-recover-a-kingdom)

**The Lay of Loki**

_Here is the tale of a quest to recover a kingdom swallowed by flame,_

_The return of the King, and how he proved himself worthy of fame;_

_Here is the tale of an elven prince, fair as starlight, raven-haired,_

_Who fought at his side; here is the tale of the love that they shared._

 

Gather round, children; hush now, little ones! The fire is dying down and the night is drawing in. Soon, we must to bed – no complaints, now, not a one! It is time for a bedtime story, so cuddle close, dearhearts, and I shall begin. Let me tell you a tale of the elder days, when mighty men and wicked monsters still roamed our Middle Earth; when the shining elves still sang in the shadow of the silver trees and the deep-delving dwarves still dwelt in the bones of the mountains.

Let me tell you a tale of one of the greatest of all the heroes of that past age, the golden King, he who was called the Thunderer before he recovered his crown and his kingdom, he who founded that great Kingdom of Men now lost and forgotten, who made his home in the Realm Eternal, the jewel-bright city of Asgard, high amidst the clouds. Let me tell you the tale of his beginnings, as a young Prince, bright and beloved, innocent and carefree, a child at play in his shimmering city, a delight to all who make the journey to entreat his father, the powerful King Odin, for his aid.

Let me tell you the tale of one such visitor, a royal prince himself: Loki, son of Laufey, called Silvertongue for his soft words and liquid song. This elven lord came as ambassador to Asgard from the elves of the Ironwood, and in Asgard he did dwell, honoured like a brother by Odin, who valued the skills and wisdom of the Elvenking Laufey and his kin. But Loki came with lies on his tongue and mistrust in his heart, for both he and his father saw treachery and greed in the House of Odin, and feared what this ambitious warrior-king would do. And so for all the honour paid to him, Loki never felt bound by kinship to these flickering, fickle Men, and watched and waited, a bright-eyed magpie nesting in their great hall, looking for baubles and trinkets that might be of use to him and his kind.

Yet he found one treasure he had not so much as looked for: the love of the young Prince, the child Thor, who adored his elegant, ethereal so-called Uncle with all of his innocent heart, and who managed, by virtue of his childish affection, to win himself a place within that elf-prince’s icy heart. Their bond was true, even for the liesmith, and they delighted in each other’s company in the long summer days in Asgard.

But this idyll could not last, for King Odin, ever looking outward, trod too far upon the hidden paths and roused the wrath of a terrible enemy: Surtur, the Fire Demon, a creature of smoke and flame and fury. From the heart of the Mountains of Fire he came, belching ash and spitting wildfire, and at every step he took the land burned and the people suffered. Surtur, most terrible and profane, a relic of the ancient days, brought his wrath to the very gates of Asgard, and there, amidst the wailing and lamentation of his people, the King prepared for war, his horned helm resting heavy upon his brow, the knowledge of his doom heavy in his heart.

The child Thor wept and pleaded, but the King stood firm: he was to be taken, in silence and stealth, to Queen Frigga of Rohan, in the heart of the grasslands, far from Surtur’s vengeance. Heimdall, that most trusted guardian, was given charge of the young Prince, and he took him in his arms and they fled, swiftly and secretly, even as the flames licked at the golden gates and Odin rode out to face the demon. Thor watched in horror as his father fell, as his people fell, as Surtur turned his fair city to so much slag and ruin, squatting amidst the ruined towers like a crimson toad, loathsome and foul, and in his heart he swore vengeance, against the demon, and against the friends who had proved so false as Asgard fell.

For his father had sent for aid, when they had learnt the demon was coming, from his closest allies, the elves of the Ironwood, and though Laufey had set out, his silver armour shining, the elven warriors singing, he had come only to the high ridge looking over the city and there he had stayed. As Thor was carried away from the battle, the small child grief-stricken and guilt-ridden, he had looked to the ridge, to the silken banners and snorting mounts, and he had cried for his Uncle, for his beloved Loki, to save him, to save them all, to defend them from the fire and the fury. But Loki had stood silent, as cold and remote as stars, just another cool, frozen figure on the windswept ridge, and Thor had wept bitter, bitter tears at this betrayal, his young heart breaking.

Loki, for his part, stood frozen in horror as Surtur ravaged Asgard, forcing himself to bear witness, for there was no more he could do. They had come to try and save at least some of the citizens of Asgard, for the children of the ice and stars knew well that they could not stand against the Fire Demon, much less the fragile and feeble mortal Men; but they were too late, and could only watch as the city fell. Loki would have braved the flames for Thor, but there was no need: he saw that Heimdall had the child and he watched with relief as the pair rode hard into the east, striking out for Rohan, where they would be welcomed and Thor would be cared for by his own kind.

For though Loki loved Thor, he feared him too, feared the power this brief-lived mortal had over his immortal heart, and in truth, he was glad to see him go, glad to be relieved of the burden of fondness for the child before he reached manhood and childish affection grew to something more. Loki withdrew with his fathers and brothers to the shadow of the Ironwood, and there he remained, and if he thought at all of the golden child and his loving, trusting eyes, he did not speak of it to his own kind.

The young Prince and his faithful guardian were indeed welcomed by Queen Frigga of Rohan, who raised the child as her own, alongside her fierce daughters, the Ladies Sif, Jane and Darcy. Thor thrived amongst the Shieldmaidens of Rohan, becoming an honorary member of the Valkyries, Rohan’s elite fighting force, and he grew to be a man both handsome and honourable, a mighty warrior and a fair friend, just as beloved by the people of Rohan as he had been by the Asgardians. What remained of his people made their way to him, and he soon amassed a loyal following, who saw in him and his friendship with the Queen’s daughters new hope for the future and a mingling of the bloodlines.

But while Thor loved his adoptive family, and honoured and cherished his place in Rohan, his heart burned to reclaim what was his: to take back Asgard and strike down the demon Surtur. And so, in time, he set out on a quest to do just that, and as he made his way from Rohan back towards the high mountains that hid his long-lost homeland, he gathered to himself a small army: Sif, Jane and Darcy headed his cavalry, the fierce Valkyries of Rohan; Fandral the Dashing, a survivor of the last days of Asgard, led a motley collection of Men from the towns and villages; Hogun, grim scion of Vanaheim, the white city, brought his own countrymen; Volstagg, son of Volsung, dwarf lord and leader of a troop of axe-wielders as full-bearded and full-bellied as himself, swore great oaths of loyalty to the cause.

But it was not enough. Fierce warriors, brave and true, he had; but he needed the Grey Elves, the magic wielders, the children of the ice and starlight, else he and all his fellows would be scorched to ash before they could so much as draw their swords. And so, despite all that had come before, he turned aside at the foot of the mountains for the Ironwood, and there he bent the knee and begged for help from Laufey, the cold and cruel Elvenking who had let his people burn. Laufey refused him, no matter how Thor invoked his father, their old oaths of allegiance, the duty due to him from this false ally. And all through the tortuous audience, there, at the cold King’s side, was Loki, still as beautiful as the evening star, still breath-taking in his grace and elegance, and though Thor hated him for the ice that surely flowed through his veins to freeze his uncaring heart, he could not help but feel the embers of his old adoration flaring to life, could not help that in the night, when all was still and silent, he rose from his sleeping pallet and sought Loki out.

In the silvery shadows of the towering trees they met again, and there they spoke and snarled and fought, Loki denouncing Thor’s foolish arrogance and selfish pride, Thor roaring his hurt and pain, reminding Loki of how he had stood and watched as Thor’s world was destroyed, how he had not even cared to come for Thor as the city burned, how he would have let him die amidst the dust and ash. This, Loki denied, this, Loki laughed at, tears shining in his moss-green eyes, this Loki said would have been better, for Thor would die soon enough either way, whether by demon fire or the ravages of old age, and that for Loki, who would live until the breaking of the world, an entire mortal lifespan was but a heartbeat, and his love for Thor could only be an agony he would rather do without. Their anger peaked and there they fought, hand to hand, disgracefully and violently, bodies crushed together, racked with what could be sobs or harsh panting.

It changed little. In the morning, Thor and his companions set out, to face the demon and meet their fate: no elves went with them, and Loki turned his face aside when Thor stared him down, hope and desperation and betrayal warring in his face.

The tale of Thor’s great battle to retake Asgard is well known and oft-told, and is studied still for its tactics and loved for the great personal heroism from all who participated in it. Who cannot thrill at the last charge of the Rohirrim, her three princesses leading the centre and the flanks, carving a path through the warg-riders and Oliphant-drivers, wheeling and turning and grinding all before them into the dust? Of how Fandral and Hogun and Volstagg re-swore their oaths of brotherhood in the blood of their enemies and stood together, back to back, defending each other to the death in a great sea of orcs and Uruk-hai, until the lines, harried by Sif and Jane and Darcy, turned and broke and the dwarves and men were united in chasing them from the field of battle, whooping war-cries and falling into each other’s arms in gratitude and relief?

And of course, Thor, the golden Prince, the King returned, who fought on foot and at the front of all his people, battering his way through dark elves and demons and monsters, swinging his mighty war-hammer and bellowing his rallying cry – For Asgard! For Asgard! – carrying all the foe before him, until, at last, Surtur himself came forth from the smoking crater that had been the royal palace, carrying the dread sword Twilight, as tall as a mountain, a terror of searing flame and volcanic fury, and how, screaming defiance, Thor charged him and was cut down, thrown to the floor like a rag doll, and all his army howled in despair and fear at the sight of their King dead and gone.

But in that moment of great loss, as his people quaked and all hope seemed lost, that moment of blood and fear and finality, there appeared a white light, too bright for any to look on, as cold and remote as the stars, and there, amidst the filth of the battlefield, knelt the elven prince, one hand on Thor’s hand, his lips pressed to Thor’s lips and there, in the shadow of flame of darkness, Loki, son of Laufey, called Silvertongue, did breathe his breath into the dying Thor, did sacrifice his immortality and the grace of his kind, and did bring back the golden King-in-waiting. And there, on that battlefield, as Thor drew breath and his heart healed, flesh and bone knitting together, eyes blinking open, dazed and yet joyful, did that Loki, whose heart was thought frozen, speak such words of love to Thor that none who heard them could restrain their tears. And Thor, whole and healed and overflowing with love, did make such promises to his elven Prince that no lover since has ever had even had the half of, and there, even as Surtur snarled and swung his flaming blade, did they exchange their first kiss and pledge their troth, and a new wonder was born into the world.

For as the dread blade bore down upon them, the Princes golden and silver did rise, and stood, side by side, united in love, and Thor raised his gory hammer and Loki lifted his glowing hands and together they called down the storm. The wind howled and thunder crashed; lightning split the sky and the earth buckled and heaved beneath their power, and then, together, they did take the battle to Surtur and there, with mighty force and power, did smite him upon the mountain and cast him down to darkness and memory. Invincible, unbeatable, the two did cleanse the city of the demon’s army and the foulness of his corruption, until they and their jubilant companions could at last ride between the restored and gleaming golden gates of Asgard and make it their home.

There, on the highest peak, surrounded by the clouds and the great dignitaries of those times, was Thor crowned King of Asgard, arraigned in rubies and gold and much splendour, which failed to eclipse the brilliance of his broad and delighted grin, and there, decked in opals and moonstones, which paled in beauty next to his small smile, was Loki named his Consort and great honours were paid to his dearest friends and compatriots, and there began a new age of glory and richness for Asgard and for all of Middle Earth.

Ah? What is it, little one? What of the line of Odin and the future of the realm? Well, child, you see, the elves of the Ironwood knew many things, and none were more skilled in the secret arts than Loki, and so, in time, a child was born to them, a daughter with sunlight in her smile and stardust in her eyes, and she became a great Queen of the next age, and had many exciting adventures of her own –

But that is a tale for another night, for I see you yawning there, no, covering your mouth does not hide it from me! To bed with you, younglings, and we shall have a new tale tomorrow. For there is much more to Thor and Loki’s tale, and many more stories of the valiant Frigga and her redoubtable daughters, the Sisters Three, Sif, Jane and Darcy, and even a tale or two of the mischief those unlikely friends Fandral, Hogun and Volstagg found for themselves on their way back to their own dominions. So many stories yet to be told, my darling children, do not fret!

But this one is done, and so we must to bed, and leave the golden King to his silver lover, the two of them laughing softly together beneath the sparkling stars, whispering such things as are not for us to know. We are intruding now, and so we must go, with one last, fond look over our shoulders, at the shadowy pair, pressed close and moving closer still, as the hush of the evening is drawn over them like a cloak, as the warm and blessed night welcomes them into each other’s arms.

**Author's Note:**

> Apologies to Tolkien fans; I've mangled Middle Earth pretty badly, I know. If it helps, this is more movie-verse than book-inspired. This is called the Lay of Loki because a) Tokien started an epic poem about a mortal man and an elf maiden called the Lay of Leithian, (which means the release from bondage), b) because many of Thor's myths are also called the Lay of Thymr and so on and c) I think sex jokes are funny.


End file.
